


What If They Get In?

by Princex_N



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Panic Attacks, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:33:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been tossing and turning in his bed for two hours before he finally gives up on the idea of actually sleeping anytime soon.<br/>...he's just plain freaking tired and he wants to sleep but every time he closes his eyes there's a spike of pure panic that shoots through his body. He can't take it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What If They Get In?

Stiles has been tossing and turning in his bed for two hours before he finally gives up on the idea of actually getting sleep any time soon.

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat out of pure frustration, because _fuck_ he's tired, and he wants to _sleep_ but every time he closes his eyes there's a spike of panic that shoots through his body, ramping up his heart-rate and leaving his senses hypersensitive to any sign of trouble. He can't take it anymore.

The nightlight in the corner of his room that he's far past the point of being embarrassed about is a small pathetic comfort, but it's not doing enough, not tonight. He needs something to pull his mind away from all the terrible possibilities of everything and anything that could be out there, waiting for him to let his guard down long enough to attack him. Leave him for dead, or something worse (He doesn't know what could be worse, but with all of the shit that he's seen this past year, he doesn't doubt that there's something out there that fits the bill)

Stiles' fingers shake and fumble on the grip he's trying to get on his computer. It nearly slips back to the floor twice, and even once he has the computer safely on the bed, he spends a too long moment considering the possibility of something beneath the bed that had been trying to pull him under it.

He finally manages to pull up a movie, something childish and lighthearted because he'd rather indulge in something like this than spend the rest of the night trying to 'man' this out or something. His heart feels like it's going to give out if it has to maintain beating at this rate.

It almost works. He's almost calm. The trembling had diminished and he could breathe without wheezing.

And then the front door opens.

Panic hits him like a freight train, every muscle in his body stiffening in tandem and his breath freezing in his throat. His ears strain for any sound, and begin to pick up on too much: the sound of the air conditioning unit pushing air out of a vent, the sound of every creaking footstep in the downstairs foyer, the cars on the dark road outside, the ceiling fan rustling the papers on his desk.

His ears are on high alert, but his vision is blurring so badly he can't see a fucking thing. There are black spots drifting in front of his eyes from the oxygen deprivation, and that's _bad_ fucking news, because if he can't see, he can't see the door, won't be able to tell when they're standing right in front of him, getting ready to attack.

He can hear them on the stairs, and Stiles can't fucking breathe. He can't do anything, the panic and hyperventilation have pulled his muscles so taught he can't move. His hands are curled into stiff shapes, he couldn't defend himself even if he knew how to.

He's broken the law, he's faced down literal monsters, he threw a Molotov cocktail to light a man on fire in order to help kill him, but the sound of a person on the stairs has reduced him to this mess. Stiles Stilinski is fucking pathetic, and he knows it.

The door knob shifts, rattling the doorframe, and Stiles startles so badly his computer tumbles to the floor with a loud clatter. A strangled sob escapes his throat, high pitched and pathetic enough to make the person on the other side of the door pause and ask, "Stiles?"

It's his dad.

Stiles lets out another sob, and now he can't stop crying. There are tears and snot and tiny little gasps, because there wasn't anything to be afraid of, and there's nothing here, nothing is going to hurt him, but his brain is too far gone to actually process that information. He can't breathe, and his dad is rushing over, voice even and calm when he tells Stiles to breathe, but Stiles has become so familiar with the concept of worry and panic that he can read it on his father's face like a goddamn book.

But despite all of that, it's nice to have him here. To know that Stiles isn't the only one in the house, there's someone else here who is at least slightly more competent and able to deal with threats than he is. His dad has a gun that will, at the very least, slow an attacker down if it couldn't outright kill them.

So, slowly, the ragged sobs tone down to breaths that actually mean something and Stiles is able to calm down enough to pull away from the death grip he has on the fabric of his dad's shirt and can lean back against his headboard in order to project some false semblance of control.

"You alright, son?" his dad asks, brow creased in worry, and Stiles hates that he's the one that always seems to put it there.

"I'm fine," Stiles says, but the distinct waver in his voice and the fact that he's still tear-stained to hell has his dad raising a skeptical eyebrow, and okay, maybe he should have chosen a smaller lie to start out with. "I will be fine," he amends.

"Did you have another nightmare?"

Another, because they've gotten so regular at this point that there was no hiding them, not when Stiles was waking up screaming at the top of his lungs multiple nights in a row. He shakes his head weakly, he hadn't even been able to get to that point. "I couldn't sleep."

The Sheriff glances down at the computer that's lying on its side on the floor, and he checks it for damage before settling it down on the bedspread. Usually, there would be a lecture about using the computer this late and sleep schedules and how lights from electronics don't help you get to sleep at all.

Instead, he just says, "I like this movie. Mind if I finish watching it with you?"

And it's not subtle, but Stiles doesn't care at this point. He appreciates the sentiment, and knows that right now he's desperate enough to accept it without protesting.

"We might as well start it from the beginning," he says instead, because he gets his subtlety from his dad, and shuffles over to make room.

Stiles wakes up the next morning with a godawful crick in his neck and his head rising and falling along with his dad's steady breaths, feeling more rested than he has in months. He should be embarrassed about this, he shouldn't need this, he's almost an adult and he has school and his dad has work, and they should get up, pretend like this never happened, because it shouldn't have needed to happen in the first place.

Instead, he just cracks his neck, whispers, "Thanks Dad," and tries to find a more comfortable position to fall back asleep in.

He has a lot of sleep to catch up on, after all.


End file.
